Once a Thief
by spiderfire
Summary: US Marshall Sam Gerard was attempting to bring an end to the violence of the Rodney King Riots. His plans go badly awry and he is captured by the rioters. This story deals with how he gets free. Written for Barricade Day '14.


**Late night, May 1, 1992 - South Central L.A.**

"What the hell kind of badge is that?"

Sam looked up at them. His right eye had already swollen shut from where the butt of a gun had taken him across the face, but he could see through the left. They had dragged him into looted remains of a corner liquor store and had handcuffed him, with his own damned cuffs, with his arms around a lally column. The air reeked of the smell of spilled liquor and piss.

"U.S. Marshal," he slurred. The right side of his jaw hurt like a sonofabitch from the same blow that caught his eye. As he spoke, he felt bones grinding, rubbing against each other somewhere inside his head and he wondered what they had broken.

"What the hell is a U.S. Marshall?"

"Who cares?"

"Just shoot him!"

"He's not L.A.P.D."

From outside, there was a tremendous whoosh as a trash barrel erupted in a two story pillar of flames. The burst of light through the shattered window left Sam blinded. "Leave him!" a voice shouted from outside. "I need you two out here!"

It had been madness, this assignment. Two days before a group of white cops had been acquitted in the savage beating of Rodney King. Within hours, chaos had taken hold in this largely black and Hispanic city. White drivers were dragged from their cars and beaten as they drove through the city. Shops were looted and set on fire. Cops tried to keep order but quickly retreated when facing mobs of overwhelming size. Why the hell was Sam Gerard, a white cop, here?

He tried to adjust his legs so he straddled the column but the floor was covered in broken glass and every motion he made felt like a shard was cutting into his skin. He gave up and sat where he was, letting his injured face lean against the cool surface of the column.

He did not know how long he sat there, listening to the sounds of gunfire, the riots in the street. There was a TV on somewhere within earshot. They kept playing and replaying the clip of President Bush saying, "anarchy will not be tolerated", and then of fucking Bill Cosby telling everyone to go home and watch the Cosby show.

He heard footsteps behind him and he tried to turn and see who was coming. The lights were off and the man who was approaching was backlit by fires out on the street. A bald black man with a gun dangling from his hand. Perhaps older than most of the thugs who were out on the street. The man walked around Sam and tucked the gun he held in his belt before crouching down.

It took him a moment to recognize the face. The bald head and clean shaven face threw him off. The last time Gerard had last seen he had looked like a q-tip with a snow white afro and bushy neatly trimmed beard. Jon. Jonathan Johnson. Despite the pain, he straightened up.

"I should have known you'd be here," he sneered.

Johnson looked at him.

"This is a criminal's playground. Of course you'd be here."

When Johnson spoke, his voice was soft, "Where are your keys?"

"Why should you care? Just shoot me and be done with it. Finish the job! That's why you are here, isn't it?"

Johnson shook his head. "I am trying to help you, Gerard."

His head was hurting so much! Sam thought he had heard Jon Johnson say that that he was trying to help. He spit on the floor, hitting Johnson's shoes.

Johnson looked at his shoes and then back Gerard. "I am not going to hurt you. Where are your cuff keys?"

"I told you, just finish me!"

With growl of frustration, Johnson grabbed a fistful of Gerard's coat and dragged him to his feet. Gerard's legs wobbled under him, but Johnson held him up as he roughly searched his pockets for the cuff keys.

"I don't need you're help," Gerard said.

Johnson found the keys and unlocked one wrist, freeing Gerard from the column. Before Gerard could react, he relocked the cop's wrists in front of him. He pulled the gun from his belt and poked Gerard with it. "Walk," he ordered, gesturing at the back door.

It was hard to balance as the room was swayed from side to side. Without thinking, Gerard put one foot in front of the other, past the now empty racks where liquor had been stored, through the fire door and out into the trash filled alley.

It was quieter back here. The sounds of gunshots were muffled and the whine of sirens as fire trucks tried to find a safe path through the riots were barely audible. Smoke filled the air and he doubled over coughing.

When Gerard caught his breath, he looked up to see Johnson watching him, the gun still in his hand. "Go ahead," he growled. "Shoot me."

"I told you, I am not going to hurt you, Gerard."

"This is not a trade. You know that. You are still a fugitive. I will catch you. Bring you to justice."

The slightest of sad smiles crossed Johnson's face as he looked down for a moment. He looked back at Gerard. "If I make it out of here alive, you will find me at 1537 West 96th." Johnson tucked the gun under his arm before he took Gerard's cuffed hands in his own. Gerard felt their rough texture, their sure strength as they turned over his own hands and put the cuff keys in his palm. Johnson closed his finger's around the keys. "Go," he said. "This alley takes you out to Normandie. Turn right and one block over the National Guard is setting up."

"Are you serious?"

"Damnit, Sam. Go!"

Gerard turned and stumbled down the alley, clutching the keys in his hand.

After going a few steps, he looked back. Johnson was standing there and watching him go. He continued walking when there were two gun shots behind him. Pop, pop. He turned to look back. Johnson was holding the gun in the air. He stumbled on.


End file.
